by Steve Alten
“What did you do to her, Mac?”
“Nothing like that. I simply offered her my professional opinion of her would-be fiancé.”
“Professional opinion? You’re a chopper pilot.”
“True, but first and foremost I consider myself a life coach.”
“Stevie, how did Sir Galahad here manage to get a woman he met once to listen? Did he get her drunk?”
Leiffer grinned. “Nothing like that. Kushnel received an order to report to the base counselor for her annual psychiatric evaluation.”
“Base counselor? We don't have a base counselor.”
“Who did the evaluation?”
“Dr. James Mackreides.”
Mac winked. “We spent four hours together, plus the following weekend in Honolulu. Poor girl, she had a lot to get off her chest. I'd tell you about it, Rudd, but that would violate doctor-patient confidentiality.”
· · ·
The H-3 Sea King was a twin engine, all-weather multi-purpose helicopter used by the Navy to detect, classify, track and destroy enemy submarines. Phased out in the 1990s by the SH-60F Sea Hawk, the four 73-foot, six-ton airships relegated to Guam were maintained by the mechanics under the command of pilot James Mackreides.
The Sea King followed the southwest coastline of Guam, battered by thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds. Mac headed for the village of Merizo, located on the southern peninsula by Cocos Lagoon. Admiral Quercio rode up front, his guests strapped in back in the cargo area.
“Mac, those two lovely young ladies you introduced me to last time… what were their names?”
“Their Chamorro names are too difficult to pronounce. I just call them Ginger and Mary Ann.”
“Nice. Once we get my guests settled, you’ll arrange a rendezvous.”
“Ginger’s father lost his leg last year to diabetes, Mary Ann has a kid. They expect to be paid for their services.”
“So pay them.” The admiral squeezed Mac’s shoulder. “I know you take a nice cut from every transaction, son. Consider my on-the-house excursions a necessary business expense.”
Mac ground his teeth, then offered Admiral Quercio a Cheshire cat grin. “We’ve actually added something new for our V.I.P. customers. It’s sort of our own version of the mile-high club. I’ve got two inflatable mattresses in back. I fly us out over the lagoon—the privacy makes the girls less inhibited—plus the sound of the rotors blocks out their screams.”
“A flying bordello, huh? What about the wind?”
“Ginger and Mary Ann prefer a bumpy ride.”
The admiral grinned. “Let’s do it.”
3
Aboard the Tallman
26 miles northeast of the Challenger Deep
PROPELLED BY DUAL 653-horsepower engines, the 275-foot research vessel Tallman continued its erratic southwestern course. Privately owned by Agricola Industries, the ship and its crew were routinely leased out by the Canadian company to the oil industry for completing pre- and post-dredge surveys, pipeline inspections, and wreck imaging prior to salvage operations. While these jobs helped pay the bills, what the ship’s owner preferred were the more challenging academically-oriented assignments—like the one they were now close to completing.
An international science expedition had brought the Tallman to its present location in the Philippine Sea, hiring Paul Agricola, the CEO’s son, to gather data on NW Rota-1, a deep submarine volcano. Since its discovery three years ago, the erupting volcano had added another eighty feet to its already imposing cone, which now towered twelve stories off the bottom of the world’s deepest trench.
Surveying the deepest sea floor in the world required a sophisticated sonar array. Fastened to the Tallman’s keel like a twelve foot remora was a gondola-shaped device that housed a Multi Beam Echo Sounder (MBES), its dual frequency deepwater sonar pings designed for mapping the abyss. The bigger challenge was penetrating the hydrothermal plume which played havoc with the sonar signal six miles down. The solution was the Sea Bat, a winged, remotely-operated vehicle. Tethered to the MBES, the Sea Bat dropped below the plume like an underwater kite, using on-board sonar to relay signals back to the mother ship, identifying every object within acoustic range.
For three months the Tallman had circled the area above the undersea volcano, gathering water samples while imaging a thriving ecosystem feeding off the heated bottom. Clouds of shrimp and crab would flee each eruption, then return to feast on the fast-growing bacteria, begetting a unique food chain that enticed massive schools of giant albino cuttlefish and the occasional giant squid.
Having completed its mission, the crew of the Tallman was recalling the Sea Bat when a large object suddenly appeared in the sonar array’s field of vision. There was no doubt the blip was a biologic. The question: what was it?
Sonar painted the picture of a very large animal, with a length exceeding fifty feet and a girth that would place its weight between fifteen and twenty-five tons. That ruled out even the most giant squid, and the sheer depth of the blip—26,332 feet—eliminated a sperm whale or any other mammal from the list.
The consensus among the three oceanographers on-board was that it was most likely a very large whale shark.
The youngest scientist disagreed.
Paul Agricola was not a capitalist like his father, Peter, but the thirty-two-year-old biologist rarely allowed an opportunity to slip through his fingers. Delaying the ship’s departure, he ordered the captain to circle while he conducted a few experiments with the Tallman’s sonar, using the Sea Bat as bait.
Actively pinging the ROV’s sonar at 24 kHz had no effect on the mysterious creature, however the lower 12 kHz sound waves sent the monster charging up from the depths—a behavior not observed among whale sharks. To Paul, the biologic was clearly a carnivore and not a krill feeder, and yet, as aggressive as it was, it refused to ascend beyond the hydrothermally-warmed bottom layer of the hadalpelagic zone.
“It’s definitely not a whale shark, but it is a shark. Sensitivity to the array’s bio-electric fields suggests a biologic possessing an ampullae of Lorenzini… I think we’re looking at a member of the genus Carcharodon.”
“Based on what evidence?” challenged ichthyologist Eric Stamp.
“Size, for one. Its girth exceeds any whale shark sighting I can think of.”
“Ah, yes, but an increase in size can be an adaptive response to the frigid waters of the abyss. Don’t forget Bergmann’s Rule: larger body size is consistent with colder water creatures—an adaptation that keeps proportionately less of a fish’s body close to the outside environment, reducing its loss of internal heat. I’d say that makes it a bottom feeder, a trait not found among Carcharodon.”
“Agreed, Professor Stamp, but your argument is weakened by the fact that our mystery monster refuses to leave the warmer depths of the Mariana Trench.”
“Making it a bottom feeder, a trait not found among Carcharodon.”
“It’s a deep water feeder, professor, but not necessarily a bottom feeder, and neither bottom feeders nor whale sharks attack ROVs. Anyway, I suspect the shark could leave the warm layer if it desired.”
“Okay, genius, tell us how you know that.” Lucas Heitman was the Tallman’s captain and Paul’s former fraternity brother, a New Jersey native who never missed an opportunity to deflate his friend’s ego.
“It’s simple deduction, based on the science of a shark’s body mass, something you know nothing about. Take Carcharodon carcharias, the Great White shark. Nature endowed big sharks with an anatomy that can handle the cold—their lateral lines contain a web-like structure of veins and arteries. As the shark swims, its moving muscles generate heat in the venous blood, which warms the cooler arterial blood like an internal bellows. It’s known as gigantothermy. Our shark must be similarly equipped, which means it can easily generate the heat needed to reach the surface waters, but it doesn’t. Why? Because it’s been conditioned to remain in its tropical habitat.”
“Conditioned by what?”
“The last Ice Age. Stay with me on this, Lucas, I’ll try to explain it so that even a fifth grader can understand it. We know glaciation from the last Ice Age affected the flow of warm water currents, shunting off food chains in the three temperate oceans. But these deep water trenches sit on volcanic hot spots. As we’ve seen from the Rota-1 volcano, warmth equals bacteria and bacteria anchors food chains. If these sharks inhabited surface waters that contained a Hadal Zone, they had a survival option to go deep into the hydrothermal layer beneath the plume. The rest of their kind couldn’t handle the extreme cold and perished.”
“The rest of their kind? Paul, you sound like you know what this creature is.”
“I do. Based on its size, its ferocity, and the fact that it hunts alone, I’d say with ninety-seven percent certainty that we’ve been tracking Carcharodon megalodon.”
“A Megalodon?” Professor Stamp scoffed.
The two visiting oceanographers seemed intrigued. “Megs hunted whales, Paul. From the tens of thousands of fossilized teeth we’ve found near land, it seems obvious the Megs preferred the shallows.”
“Maybe man finds most Megalodon teeth in the shallows because that’s where it’s easier for us to find them. However, we also find Megalodon teeth in the depths. In fact, the H.M.S. Challenger found them in these same depths, in these very waters. No, gentlemen, this is definitely a Megalodon, and I intend to prove it.”
Captain Heitman’s skin tingled. “How, Paul? How are you going to prove it?”
Paul flashed his father’s smile. “Lucas, old pal, you and I are going to coax it up.”
4
Aboard the DSV-4: Sea Cliff
THE 58,000 POUND BEHEMOTH sank slowly away from its detached harnesses and out of the dive team’s view, trailing streams of air bubbles. The fiberglass hull, fashioned over the four-inch-thick titanium crew sphere, was essentially a chassis, designed to secure the silver-zinc batteries that powered the electrical and life-support systems, as well as the two hydraulic units that drove its propeller. Mounted outside the hull were television and still cameras, external lights, short-range sonars, two 7-function hydraulically operated manipulator arms, a collection basket that could hold up to 250 pounds, and a “super-sucker” device for collecting samples.
Ballast tanks, set in pairs forward and midship, prevented the submersible from plunging to the bottom like an anchor. Should the vehicle pitch in the currents, the pilot would employ the sub’s Battelle trim system—sintered tungsten carbide balls in a hydraulic fluid, moved along stainless steel coils at either end of the sub.
Steel plates were fastened along the bottom of the craft. When it was time to ascend, the pilot simply jettisoned the six tons of ballast, the change in buoyancy launching the DSV to the surface.
Limited to an hour’s forward velocity of 2.5 knots, restricted to controlled descents and ascents, the Sea Cliff was essentially a deep-diving mechanical turtle, its three passengers sealed within its watertight titanium shell.
· · ·
Of the three teams of scientists assigned to the mission, Jonas enjoyed the company of Richard Prestis and Mike Shaffer the most. Unlike the other stuffed-shirt professors, these two middle-aged geologists had a boyish comic side to them, especially at chow time when Prestis would often attempt to steal his friend’s food, causing Shaffer to retaliate with a “titty twister.”
The interior of the titanium capsule was far too small for goofing around—the equivalent of placing three grown men inside an empty Jacuzzi encased by a five foot curved ceiling of equipment. The three 4.3 inch portholes did little to relieve the sensation of claustrophobia lurking a wandering thought away, forcing both scientists to balance their cognitive responsibilities with their intake of Valium.
Jonas had no such luxury, and could ill-afford a lapse in concentration, especially today.
In a sense, piloting a DSV was similar to the dangers of driving a truck solo cross country; fatigue was the result of the hypnotic effect of long journeys on monotonous interstate roads. Operating an eighteen wheeler at night was ten times more dangerous than during daylight hours. The mind wandered, impairing decision making and slowing the driver’s reaction time.
Of course, a truck driver could always pull over at a rest stop to stretch his legs, even grab a few hours of sleep. In the DSV it was always night, at least after the first thousand feet.
Three dives in eight days…
Fifty-one hours of piloting in just under 190 hours.
Gazing out the forward viewport above Mike Shaffer’s shoulder, Jonas watched the blue void deepen to violet as the Sea Cliff slipped below eight hundred feet, sinking beyond the shallows of the mesopelagic region. 400 feet later, the depths officially extinguished the last gray curtain of sunlight, casting them into the mid-region’s velvety darkness.
The journey had officially begun.
Approaching the first quarter mile… one of twenty-four that leads down to the warm layer. Five hours down, three to five hours collecting samples, then another four back to the surface, maybe less if I push it. The sea will be even rougher by tomorrow morning with that damn typhoon right on our ass. The highlight of the day will be watching Danielson bent over the rail.
Shifting his weight within the tight confines, careful not to kick the dozing Dr. Prestis, Jonas looked down at the viewport between his feet—a grapefruit-size window revealing only blackness.
As he watched, the dark void suddenly came alive with thousands of twinkling lights.
The Sea Cliff had transported them into another universe—a mid-water region known as the bathypelagic zone, home to the largest ecosystem on the planet. Encompassing upwards of ten million species, the life forms inhabiting this “twilight zone” had adapted to an eternity of living in darkness by evolving large, bulbous eyes that could pick up slivers of light… and by creating their own light.
Bioluminescence in living organisms was generated through a chemical reaction, in this case a light-producing luciferin and its catalyst, called a luciferase. Fueled by the release of Adenosine Triphosphate (ATP), the luciferase caused the luciferin to oxidize, creating a bioluminescent light. Jonas was familiar with these light-emitting photophore organs, having dissected a Vampire Squid in the Navy’s lab.
The deeper they descended, the more curious the fish became. Hatchet fish bashed their fanged jowls against the thick glass in alternating swarms, attempting to reach the twinkling lights of the control panels. For several minutes an anglerfish escorted the starboard viewport, its illuminated rod fin casting an eerie yet enticing reflection back at the hitchhiker, who was unknowingly snapping at itself.
Finding himself becoming mesmerized, Jonas looked away, focusing his attention on his gauges. The sea temperature had dropped to a bone-chilling 51-degrees Fahrenheit, the water pressure increasing beyond 1,935 psi.
Closing his eyes so as not to cheat, he attempted to calculate their depth, a mental exercise designed to keep his mind sharp. Water pressure increases at a rate of 14.7 pounds per square inch for every 33 feet of depth. Dividing 1,935 pounds per square inch by…
The sudden sensation of vertigo nearly tossed him from his cushioned bench. Quickly reopening his eyes, he glanced around the sphere.
Richard Prestis was still snoozing on his left, curled under a blanket in a forced fetal position.
Michael Shaffer was staring at him on his right, the geologist’s eyes as wide as the Hatchet fish’s, his white-knuckled hand clutching a frayed paperback book. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Right as rain.”
“Good. Then maybe you ought to strap in… you know, your harness?”
“Harness? Yeah. Good idea.” Retrieving the two straps, he attempted to insert one end into the other, only his hands were trembling far too much to accomplish the task.
Shaffer waited patiently, while on the inside his pulse raced. The scientist glanced up at the depth gauge as its orange LED numbers flickered past 7,100 feet. B
arely a quarter of the way down and he’s already losing it. Better lighten the mood… ease his mind, at least what’s left of it.
“Hey, Jonas, did I ever tell you about the best toast of the night contest? It was won by a fine Irish lad, John O’Reilly, who hoisted his beer and said, ‘Here’s to spending the rest of me life… between the sumptuous legs of me big breasted wife!’ When John returned home that night, drunk as a skunk, his wife demanded to know what the prize was for. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘I won the prize for the best toast of the night. Here’s to spending the rest of me life, sitting in church beside me beautiful wife.’
“Well, the next day Mary ran into one of John’s drinking buddies. Staring at her massive boobs, the man said, ‘So Mary, did ye hear John won the prize the other night at the pub with a toast about you?’ ‘Aye, he told me,’ Mary said, ‘and I was a bit surprised myself. You know, he’s only been there twice in the last four years. Once he fell asleep, and the last time I had to pull him by the ears just to make him come.’”
Jonas smiled. “It’s a long ride. I hope you saved your ‘A’ material for the Devil’s Purgatory.”
“Now there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who came up with that name for this stretch of trench?”
“I’m told it originated from one of the scientists aboard the H.M.S. Challenger. According to his journal entry, it was in this area that they netted some of the biggest fossilized shark teeth of the entire voyage, including a few that dated back less than ten thousand years.”
“How big were the teeth?”
“Six to seven inches, the edges all serrated. Like a steak knife.”
“What kind of—”
“Megalodon. A prehistoric relative of the Great White shark. If you figure an inch of tooth equals ten feet of shark… well, you get the idea.”
“That’s a big-ass shark.”
“Here’s the real scary part: if the teeth were less than ten thousand years old, then that meant some of these sharks had survived the last Ice Age by going deep to inhabit the warm layer heated by the volcanic vents. Lots of heat along the bottom. The hot zone. As in hell.”
